


Sing, O Muses

by agirlmustwrite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Arthurian Mythology, Game of Thrones (TV), Greek and Roman Mythology, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Multi, Mythology fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlmustwrite/pseuds/agirlmustwrite
Summary: Sing, O Muses, of the horrid tales of what we did for love.  Let our blood seep into the fabric of history, so that others will know of our toil. 
A collection of Mythology/Game of Thrones fusions of some of my favorite ships. But if anyone has any requests, I'm glad to take some.





	1. Jonsa: Dionysus & Ariadne

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know some of the ships I ave listed are kinda weird, and you're probably asking WTF am I gonna do with these ships. Well, I've got some ideas! :P  
> Okay, So first up is my OTP, Jonsa! And the Myth is......Dionysus and Ariadne!  
> *avoids the salad bar being thrown at me* Hear me out! Hear me out! I have good reasoning behind it!  
> Think about it, a broken, intelligent girl who was used by men for their own gain. But then, a man, or god, that is followed by a rowdy group of loud and boisterous drunks, comes and sweeps her off her feet. You can not tell me that does not sound like the Jonsa reunion in season six.  
> But if it still sounds too far fetched, I respect that. However, if you're on board, I hope you like it!  
> Discliamer: I own as many things as Jon Snow knows

She couldn’t tell if the salty taste on her lips was from the sprays of the ocean waves, or from her own tears. Regardless of which, the taste was even more prominent as she was torn away from her forlorn gaze to the empty horizon by the wild shouts behind her. In fright, she looked to the forest behind her, unfamiliar with its lush and exotic plants and texture. As a child of the cold north it frightened her regardless, for there were all kinds of potentially dangerous creatures. She had not been afraid when she had first set foot on the island, but that was because brave Willas had promised to protect her-

_ 'No. Willas is a coward and a liar, just like the rest of them. And now no one can save me,’  _ she thought bitterly. And she now realized the salty taste was in fact her tears.

She braced herself for the creature -or creatures, there was multiple shrieks- and faced the rustling trees with a mask of bravery. Were she to die, she would make sure she did so with all the strength of a Stark.

She did not expect for the creature to be covered in furs of other animals, nor to have a red beard the size of a bush. The creatures that followed were just as peculiar with their shouts and furs. Yet as she caught a gleam of steel, she realized that these were not creatures but people. Wild people who screeched like banshees. They danced like mad men and howled like wolves. It would’ve been comforting in its familiarity had it not been terrifying. Yet as they splashed around in the water, scuffing the rocks and sand of the beach, she realized something familiar in the air. They reeked of alcohol.

Knowing full well the horrid capabilities of drunk men, she took advantage of their seeming indifference to her and quietly picked up her skirts. She didn’t know where she would go, as long as it was far from this madness. Carefully, she scurried over the sand, making her way south, until her dress snagged on a rock, and she toppled to the ground. Sand was pressed into her face and it filled her mouth as she coughed. As she lifted her face, desperate to spit out the coarse sand, she was met with a large flask. 

She blinked, recoiling in a shock as she stared at the goatskin covered flask. It wasn’t uncorked, yet the smell of the sweet vine filled her nostrils. It’s smell far surpassed that of the milk of the poppy she had drunk on some occasions. The smell was heavenly and alluring. But she could tell it wasn’t strong. If anything, it would taste like honeyed grape juice. She saw that there was a hand attached to it, and it took her an embarrassing long second to realize someone was offering this flask. She lifted her head to the person, and her breath hitched.

Unlike the others, he was not dressed in heavy furs impractical for the weather. No, he was dressed in dark clothes of the finest possible quality. His dark curly hair contrasted his pale skin, but beneath the beard it was a dark red, that only came with intoxication. Nonetheless, the unnatural glow of his skin and shine of his clothes revealed  **what** he was. And from the drunken smirk and possy of drunks behind him, she had a pretty good idea  **who** he was, too.

“Here,” he offered, shoving the flask closer to her face, giving her what appeared to be an attempt at a charming smile. But it came out awkward and dopy in his current state. “You look like you could use a drink.”

She stared at the flask, before looking back to him, and frowned. “That’s not your strongest wine. Give me your strongest.”

He looked at her in shock and laughed boisterously. “Love, you don’t want my strongest-.”

“Fucking give me the strongest wine you have.”

He stared at her wide eyed, seemingly taken aback. But she didn’t care. After the shit she had gone through, she needed a strong swig of wine. She’d drink piss if it meant dulling the pain. 

“I don’t think you know what you're asking, love,” he told her, without an ounce of lie in his eyes. He seemed very convinced what was best for her, and she was sick of that.

“I know exactly what it is I’m asking. I’m tired of men denying me what I want, so give me the damned wine.”

“I’m not a man,” he stated matter of factly, and she bit back the urge to punch that drunken smirk off his face.

“Man or not, you still have a prick, and you must be the god of the vine and pricks if you’re to deny me any longer.”

Sighing, the God of Wine took out another flask, this time reeking of ale. It had but awig left, and smelt like the piss her Uncle Benjen had brought  from the Wall. It smelt like home. She reached for it like a dying fish. But he pulled it out of her reach. He uncorked it, and proceeded to down the whole flask. She stared at him in horror as he gulped the last swallow of ale, all while staring at her.

“You..D-did you just-?”

“That was the only strong stuff I had on hand, but it’s nothing compared to what else I can bring you. All you have to do is one thing.”

She scoffed at him, glaring daggers into his skull. “And what might that be?”

She was taken by the surprise as the god took her hand into her own. But it wasn’t the movement so much as it was his hand alone. It was cold, like snow on the first day of winter. The cold wrapped her dainty hand, and she felt a pang of familiarity as she stared into his dark eyes, that held warmth in contrast to the cold of his touch.

“Allow me to wash away your pain. I have seen your struggles, and I know of the many who betrayed you. I know that you wish to drink away the pain.”

Unexpectedly, she felt tears prick at her eyes. But before she could wipe them away, she felt the cold touch of the God’s hand wipe at her tear duct.

“ But I know also that the vine only dulls the pain. But the joys that come with the vine is what chisels at it. The sing, the dance, the joy is what truly washes away the pain.These are my gifts to mankind. It is my job to bring this to mortals, yet I have never met a mortal I have wanted to share my gifts with more than you.” 

He then offered her the sweet wine,and looked at her earnestly with those deep dark eyes. 

“Please, Sansa. Let me share my gifts with you.”

She wasn’t sure what prompted to do so.It could’ve been madness, or the pull of the immortals as many a woman who had bedded the king of the gods claimed.  But she pushed the wine away, and instead seeked for the ale on his tongue as she pressed her mouth to his. He tasted of the vine, of the bitter ale and sweet mead. And as she chased the tastes of the grape with her tongue, she found she could very well bury the past in Jon’s gifts. 


	2. Throbb: Achilles & Patroclus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theirs is a song that minstrels dare not sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. The Achilles and Patroclus parallels between these two, it just had to be done. If Throbb ain't your cup of tea, than I respect that. But please respect the fact that these are my sons, who need to be loved and protected at all costs, and god dammit, THEON HAD THE BIGGEST CRUSH ON ROBB I MEAN HAVE YOU SEEN THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HIM IN THE BEGINNING OF THE SHOW??!?!?! AND HOW IN THE BOOKS HE'S ALWAYS SAYING "I SHOULD'VE DIED WITH HIM"?!?!?! I CAN'T I JUST CAN'T!!!!!! *ugly sobbing*  
> Anywho, now that that's over, let me explain that this is an extreme Au, where instead of Robert's Rebellion happening before Robb's birth, it takes place during his preteen years. Robb is the son of Brandon instead of Ned. Lyanna already married Robert, and her abduction is the whole "Helen of Troy Abduction". But the Greyjoy Rebellion still remains cannon as far as time lines go, so Theon is still ward to the Starks.  
> So please enjoy! I'm sorry if this is at all confusing, I'm truly sorry!  
> Disclaimer: I own as many things as Jon Snow knows

This could not be the Greyjoy boy. They said he was more than twice his own age, and twice as vicious. That he had killed a boy his own age out of rage. Yet this sniveling runt was far from what the stories told of him. He looked like a shaken puppy, green eyes wide and red rimmed.

At five, he could tell that this boy would not survive the north. He never joined him in the training ring. Robb himself was too young to practice, but he could often watch as his Aunt Lyanna shot arrows, followed by his Uncle Benjen’s poor attempts. But the boy was old enough. But all he did was sit in the side lines.

But it did not escape his notice that he looked at the bows in a forlorn gaze. He wondered if on the Pyke, he had practiced with the bow. If he had used it to kill the boy. Mayhaps that was the reason he avoided the practice ring. But the longing in his eyes struck something in Robb, and before he knew it, he walked up to weapons rack. He plucked off the smallest bow he could find, and brought it to the sad boy. His green eyes were trained on the target, until Robb shook him. He looked down and scowled at the Stark boy.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve seen you watching. You really like the bow and arrow, don’t you?”

He scoffed, before turning his attention back out to the ring, as Aunt Lyanna hit the edge of the center ring on the target. He puffed out a breath, seemingly unimpressed.

“Why? Think you can do better?” Robb pushed, and the Greyjoy glared outwards.

“I know I can.”

“Then show me!”

He turned his focus back to Robb and raised an eyebrow in the younger boy’s direction and let out a snort, “Show you? I can’t show you! I don’t have a-”

His eyes latched onto the bow in Robb’s hand. He looked at it as a starving dog may look at a bone.His dull murky green eyes brightened into a sea-green color as he practically drank in the curve of the wooden bow and the rough string. But he was suddenly shaken out as he looked at Robb sadly.

“I-Ican’t.”

“Why not?”

The boy looked sadly onto the snow covered ground, and mumbled hoarsely, “Because..Because the last time i used it… I-I was only practicing..We were just playing around.... It was an accident, but my hand slipped, a-and.”

It dawned on Robb what he was speaking of, and he felt hot embarrassment for bringing up what must be painful for him to talk about. But he saw past the hurt, and saw the longing within his father’s ward to pick up a bow again. So he nudged the weapon and an arrow into the older boy’s hands, and gave him an affirmative smile.

“That’s why you have to practice. So it won’t ever happen again!”

He looked at the bow in wide eyed wonder, and looked down at Robb with a look that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. But then his gaze returned to bow,as he strung the arrow to the bow, and lifted it up with a practiced grace. He seemed to uneasily aim it at the faraway target, and stared in terror. But determined to get this boy to a survive long enough to teach him how to fight, Robb lifted the arrow a bit higher towards the target. The Greyjoy looked down at him, shook from his fright, and sighed. He carefully aligned the arrow, and took a whisper of a breath, barely noticeable to Robb’s ear. But a whoosh of air sailed past him, and the sound of an arrow sailing through the air cut through his Aunt’s mockery of his uncle. Both figuratively and literally, as the arrow hit dead center. Both of the Stark adults looked to where Robb was, and stood wide eyed. But the little Stark Lord brushed off their amazement as he looked to the youth who accomplished the great feet. His eyes sparkled as slowly, a grin began to creep up onto his previously grimm face.

And it was in that moment that Robb Stark noticed that Theon Greyjoy was quite handsome when he smiled.

 

-~-

 

“Are you afraid?”

He paused his sharpening to look at the new comer. He looked so out of place from the others within his fleet. His bow strapped to his back would’ve placed him as one of his father’s archers, yet the forerunner of the North knew that his companion was fully capable of commanding the men he had brought from the Iron Isles in their attempt to aid the Rebellion. They would need all the help they could get were they to rescue his aunt Lyanna from the Targaryens. Even that of the upstarts of the Greyjoy Rebellion. But Robb never saw it as that. To him, Theon was never his father nor his brothers, Theon was Theon.. And he would need him more then ever now in this time of great peril.

He was recruited by his Uncle Ned to help aid in the war to retrieve Robert Baratheon’s wife from Rhaegar Targaryen. Known for his prowess in battle,his masterful skills in strategy,  as well as accompanied by Grey Wind, he was thought to be the trump card in this war.

But in truth, Robb was but a boy who wished to remain in the North and keep it steady during the time of unease. And he would have remained so, had it not been for his hot blooded Father and Grandfather, who rode to King's Landing, and were now being held hostage by the Targaryens. It was now up to the son to rescue the father, and he would do whatever it took to bring him home.

But upon arriving to the shores of the dragon’s lair, right outside the walls, he felt a sense of dread come over him. He was not ready. Within hours he would be expected to lay siege to innocent citizens and face the looming threat of the Mad King’s wildfire. He had every right, yet no right to be afraid. He could not let his men know, but Theon was not one of his men. He was his  **man** .

“I must be.” he admitted aloud, quite embarrassed. But the Greyjoy merely chuckled

“Good.”

Robb stared at him like he was mad. “Why is that good?”

Theon merely offered him a signature grin. “It means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes turned downcast, and he frowned. “It means I’m a coward.”

Theon laughed, before bringing over two tankard. “Better to be lead by a smart coward then a brave fool.” He took a swig of the ale, and burped aloud. “Phew! Praise Jon, thats some good ale!”

“Don’t speak that name, you know how I feel about the  god of the vine, Theon,” Robb grumbled darkly, frowning at the thought of the god who had taken away his best friend all those years ago.

“Hey, if there’s anyone to blame for Sansa running away, it's that Tyrell prick. You should be happy she ended up with a god! Even if it was that drunk bastard. ‘Sides,” he offered him a separate tankard. “You can’t deny he makes some great gifts. Come now, you coward, drink up some liquid courage.”

 

-~-

 

He heard a rustling at his tent flap, but did not need to turn to the door to know who it was. The heavy stomp of the boots was testimony enough to know who it was. And he did not wish to deal with this hypocrisy.

“So know your taking spoils of war? Was it not you who taught me it was barbaric?” Theon growled from his place behind him, and he was glad his back was to the Greyjoy. Were he to face him, he would no doubt see the hurt and betrayal in his green eyes that was so evident in his voice. But what did he have to be hurt for?

“Jeyne isn’t a spoil of war, she willingly came along with me.”

“Horse shit, Stark! She’s a Lannister loyalist! You’d let an enemy into your camp? To your bed!”

He turned to his friend, eyes blazed in fury, matching that of the Ironborn warrior facing him. “She is not an enemy, she surrendered. Her house surrendered.”

“Oh, I’m  **sure** she ‘surrendered!’” He bit out with a bitter bite in his voice.  “For who wouldn’t surrender to the Young Wolf. But her loyalty isn't stored in her Westerling cunt, so she could be running information to the opposite side after she ‘surrenders!’ Ever thought of that, Stark?” 

He stormed over to his old friend, and hoisted him against the pillar of his tent, slamming his head into the post. Caught off guard, Theon cried out in pain, hissing through his teeth as he looked back into those cold Tully-blue eyes.Robb narrowed his eyes and growled out,

“Like you're any different. What was that tradition you Ironborn do? Taking young maids from their homes and raping them? What about your salt wives, Theon?”

Theon coughed more, and his eyes were watery as he growled out, “Y-you know I never did that! I’m-I’m not like my brothers! I-I'm not an Ironborn, and neither are you! So stop acting like one!”

A beat later, he let him go. Gasping for air, Theon collapsed to the ground, and coughed his lungs out. Robb was stomping his way out of his tent.

He walked on, shoving past anyone who was in his way. How dare They think he could hold higher moral ground than him. Was it so wrong to want to bury away to want to escape the pain and grotesque images of war, to escape the anxiety that burned in his stomach when he thought of his captive family? What did They understand of that? Why did he care anyways? It’s not like it affected him. 

But the hurt in his eyes caused something to stir inside Robb. Something odd, and it pained him.

He shook his head. Whatever this feeling was, he was sure he could bury it in Jeyne’s cunt.

 

-~-

 

There had been a time when the stench of blood and sweat, the smell of battle, the smell of death was all that filled his nostrils. But after months away from the battle, he could no longer recognize the stench that filled his nostrils when They barged into his tent, sweat and blood dripping from his armor as he stared at him wild eyed. He had little time to prepare as Theon came to him in three long strides, and grasped him tightly by the shoulders and burned through him with the intensity of his gaze.

“Robb, you need to stop crying like a little pussy, and come back!”

He stared blankly at Theon, challenging his intense stare with his own. “Why should I? It’s pointless. The King...He’ll incinerate us all.” ‘Just as he did to father and grandfather.’

He had lost his only reason for joining this fight. If his father was dead, there was no guarantee that Aunt Lyanna was still alive. Yet Uncle Ned insisted to push forward, despite the great grief he felt. But Robb felt no hope. He had watched as the Mad King burned his father outside the walls of King's Landing, ad screamed and cried along with that of his dying kin. Uncle Ned had been consulting with Stannis at the time, he could still have hope. For Robb, it burned away with his sire.

But Theon understood, he was the one to hold him as he sobbed out for his father. As he screamed and cried for three nights straight, and stayed to comfort him for the next nights as he screamed out in his sleep. He was the one who kept him company till the demons went away. He wasn't the best when it came to talking comfort, it usually involved an ill timed joke and later a guilt ridden apology. But just his presence was enough. It wasn’t like when Robb went to Jeyne all those times, it wasn’t momentary or physical. Theon seemed to shoot right to the core of the problem, like he did to his enemies on the battlefield. It was painful at times how he could be a brutally honest asshole. But in the end, it was what Robb needed. Honesty. Not the forced comfort that Eddard offered when he was masking his own. Not the pleasure that Jeyne had become a master at drawing out. Just pure honesty. And Theon gave him that. 

He has begged for his cruelty to his friend within those dark days, and Theon honestly told him he’d probably never forgive him. They had laughed about it after the comment. If only he could laugh about the inevitable slaughter their army faced now.

“Robb, you don’t understand! We need you! I need-.”

Robb snapped his head up, and found that Theon had stilled, his mouth half open as if he had caught himself. I flush of pink rose onto his cheeks as he stared at the ground, and Robb felt his mouth go dry.

“I-I..I mean…” Theon seemed to be gathering his thoughts together as he stammered. He didn’t need to say anything though, he understood what he was saying. He always did.

“Robb..I-I just...I-If you won’t go into battle, at least let me-.”

He cut him off, and felt the surprise on Theon’s lips as he pressed his to his companion’s. Caught off guard, Theon broke off, and stared at him in disbelief. To be honest, Robb wasn’t sure what had compelled him to do so himself.

“W-wh-! Robb! Are you fucking insane?! What’s gotten into you?”

“...I don’t know…” Robb answered truthfully, willing himself to look at Theon.

His face was flushed, his lips tinted a color darker from the kiss were parted as he let out harsh pants. His blue eyes, once clear with determination and rage, were clouded with confusion, and something he knew all too well. 

So when he made a move for another kiss, he was pleased to find that he was right. Theon might’ve had as much of an understanding of this feeling as this as he did, he too felt the want. The want to continue. He attempted to speak of something else, perhaps what he intended to say before he was cut off. But all words turned to gasps and moans as Robb embraced his best friend in the most honest and bare way. For he trusted Theon, and they were always honest with each other.

 

-~-

When Robb awoke, he felt the cold of his furs and an empty cot. But he thought it not odd, for he tended to sleep in nowadays, and it was nearing noon. Theon was probably conferring with Eddard and Jon Arryn, most likely to explain to them how he had failed to convince him to return to battle.

He took a look at the floor, and noticed that Theon’s armor was still lying on the floor. He chuckled smugly. Without the armor, the marks he left last night would be hard to miss. He felt odd pride in knowing that his best friend was walking around camp with evidence that he was Robb’s for all to see. 

He was shaken from his musing when someone came into his tent. Anticipating it to be Theon, he turned around with a smile. Instead he was met with the grim face of his uncle, whose eyes were sunken in as he looked at him with horror ridden on his face. Quirking an eyebrow, Robb asked him:

“Uncle Eddard? Why are you here?”

“I can ask you the same question, Robb.”

“This is my tent,” he stated, rather annoyed by the dumb statement. “Where else where I be?”

“Well, up until an hour ago, we thought you were on the battlefield.”

Robb froze, and slowly turned to the his uncle, his eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

Ned fidgeted a bit, before sighing, “Robb, you need to understand, he fought like you, he looked like you in your armor-”

He drowned out Ned at the armor part, when it dawned on him. He ran to the side of the tent where he kept his armour. He discarded the pile of furs he had kept it under, and saw that in its place was a pillow. His blood froze as his foot clanked against armor that was not his own. He looked down at the kraken encrusted armor, and he felt his stomach sink.

“-Robb, we tried, we really tried, but-!”

“Where is he?” he snapped out, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable. There was a pause, and Ned stuttered out.

“Robb, there was nothing we could do, he was too far ahead when we realized-.”

“Where. Is. He?” he growled out, his blood boiling as he glared daggers into his uncle’s skull.

Ned looked at him with eyes teared and re, and bowed his head as he let out a low whistle. A moment later, Grey Wind entered, but instead of the regal stride, he kept his head bowed as he carried in something else. From beneath the cloth, an arm fell out. And Robb felt his heart shatter at the ring on the hand’s finger.

Trembling, Robb rushed to the direwolf, and stopped short of pulling the sheet back. Behind him, Ned had continued 

“He...He lead the men, wearing your armour. He had copied your mannerism and fighting style so perfectly, we thought he was you...But then that Bolton boy-”

Robb turned his eyes to his uncle, blank as a sheet as he whispered hoarsely, “Bolton?”

“We-we thought it was Roose Bolton’s son who had often played harp with the prince. He was supposed to be one of our insiders. But those cold eyes... It was his bastard, disguised as his trueborn brother. He had double crossed us, and exposed Theon. He reached him before we could, and.. Gods, I’m so sorry, Robb.”

Ned reached for the cloth, and Robb grasped his hand, a silent plea. Ned looked to him and complied. He allowed for Robb to pull back the sheet, revealing what would have been pale skin, had it not been covered in dirt and blood. Where had been the freckled skin he had kissed every inch of was cut marks. The skillful fingers that could string a bow faster then the goddess of the hunt herself, were flayed, some even cut off. His torso was cut in crude crisscrosses, a poor attempt at carving the murderer’s house into the flesh.Many mutilations marked his body. Stab marks replaced the lovemarks he had made into his body the previous night. And below the torso..oh gods above!

“When we finally made it to the scene, he was still alive. But by the time we brought him back to safety… Robb, there was nothing we could do-.”

“A  **Bolton** did this?”

Ned stepped back at the tone of his nephew’s voice, but Rob didn’t see. All he saw was the open eyes of Theon, the only person he trusted. His man, the only man, the only one who truly completed him. There was his other half, his body mutilated, his once bright eyes, as sparkling as the sea he had so loved, never betraying his emotions, even when his smirking mouth would, were dull, frozen in eternal terror and pain. The eyes he had loved so much were but glass orbs, forever reflecting the last moments torturous moments of his life. Had he cried out for mercy? Had he begged for his life. Did he cross Theon’s mind as his entrails were ripped from his body by a smirking Bolton bastard. Bolton Bastard. Bolton. Bolton.  **Bolton.**

“Where is Bolton?”

 

-~-

 

Minstrels will sing of how the Young Wolf stormed into the gates, riding his dire wolf as he would a horse, both he and his companion drenched in blood as they tore through the king’s men. How his long awaited return to battle had been all that was promised and more. How he had headed the army that made it to the throne room, where the King Slayer had dealt away with the king but moments befor. 

What they will not sing of is how the blood that he is drenched in is not that of his enemies, but that of his own allies. How he had stormed into the Bolton camp, eyes crazed as he bled Roose Bolton, and had stuck his still breathing body to a cross and burned it in front of the gates of King’s Landing, where the Lord’s bastard stood watch as his father screamed in agony. They will not sing of how the Young Wolf took the bucket of blood he had collected and bathed himself and his direwolf in it, all the while looking at the Bolton Bastard in the eye. A silent challenge to face him.

They will not sing of how he had beat him bloody, and then ordered Grey Wind to drag him, barely alive, three times round the walls of King’s Landing, all the while grasped in his jaws. They will not sing of how he had thrown the limbs of the Bastard at the feet of House Bolton’s Bannermen, and told them to kill each other. They will not sing of how he told them the last man standing will gain all of House Bolton’s lands and titles.

They will not sing of how he slit the Kingslayer throat.They would of, for he is still a Stark, and Stark’s value loyalty. They will not sing because it was not out of loyalty, but pure bloodlust.

They will not sing of how later that day, he held the corpse of the fallen Greyjoy,weeping as he touched the corpse tenderly with his blood stained fingers. They will not sing of the gentle whispers he gave to those dull eyes, of the tears that drpped onto the cold lifeless cheeks. 

No, there will be no songs sung of the terrible things Robb Stark did for love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if anyone is confused as to who's supposed to be who, here's a guide  
> Achilles: Robb  
> Patroclus: Theon  
> Hector (sorta, just for the murder Pat part): Ramsay  
> Odysseus: Ned  
> Agamemnon: Stannis  
> Menelaos: Robert  
> Helen: Lyanna  
> Paris: Rhaegar  
> Nestor: Jon Arryn  
> Thank you so much for reading! Up next is my favorite semi-dysfunctional ship: Arya & Jaqen!


	3. AryaxJaqen: Cassandra of TroyxApollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are few songs about Nameless God of Vengeance. He was one of the few gods that had not taken up countless mortal lovers. There is but one song. The Tragedy of the Winter Princess and the Vengeful God. Of how a princess of the Northern Kingdom had refused the advances of a god, and was punished cruelly for her chastity. But what they don’t know is that she was as cruel as him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I know! I Know! It took forever! But~! I had a good reason. For you see, I have had my hands tied up because *drum roll* I got a leading role in Fiddler on the Roof! I won't tell you who it is, but I will tell you a clue: it rhymes with soda! (Anyone who can answer correctly will receive a virtual hug! Because I am dirt poor, and can't afford cookies of any sort.)So yeah, I was tied up. But now that the production is over, I have more time to come back to writing! So I'll try to update this and my other stories as soon as I can!  
> On to the task at hand. This installment of GoT and Greek Mythology fusion features my favorite semi-dysfunctional ship: AryaxJaqen!  
> *avoids the salad bar once more*  
> I know! I know! It's not the most popular! But I love those two so much! Whether it be platonic (which I have wrote quite a bit about) or romantic, I just ship them! If its in the books, which I'm praying they meet in Oldtown during Wind of Winters or something, or the great chemistry they have on the show, they work for me as either platonic or romantic. So, this is my first attempt at doing it romantically. Or at least unrequited. Because come on. The myth is Cassandra and Apollo. Can't be fluffy.   
> Disclaimer: I Own as many things as Jon Snow knows. (And no, I don't own going down on someone. As lovely as that would be, that knowledge I believe everyone should know. I don't want to be selfish and claim it for myself. Let everyone engage in oral!...Jesus Christ, I'm tired. I'm going to shut up now.)

In all honesty, he had forgotten the temple in the North. Not many mortals from Westeros acknowledged him as a deity. To them, he was more of an idea. It mattered not, Essos provided enough to keep him occupied. They knew what he was, they knew what to pray to him for, and he always does his duty. He could afford to, for he wasn’t as widely celebrated as other deities, and his role was limited. 

The few times a mortal of Westeros arrived to the doors of his temple, it was one of two reasons: to escape the bitter cold, or to pray to Death. He cared not to punish them for their mistakes. All were concerned with Death, yet not all were concerned with his servants. Not all were truly concerned with a the god of vengeance

But the voice he heard was.The raspy, hateful voice had specifically called out to him. It had not spoken the name of death, but had spoken his name. It felt odd, hearing the Northern accent role his name into a pleaded growl, and he was drawn to it. Out of all the calls for vengeance, he turned to  one coming from the North.

He manifested in the shadow, watching as the mortal knelt before his altar. He did not know what to expect, but he was certainly not expecting such a lovely girl to call for blood. A mortal as lovely as she should be entertaining the trivial mortal courts. Yet here she was, a sword on her hip, and the hunger of a wolf in her eyes.

A lovely girl looked t him, and her fierce grey eyes brightened in what seemed to be elation. He stood there for a second, awaiting a bow, but she seemed to be mirroring him, she just stood and waited. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked bluntly. And he was dumbstruck. Did this mortal truly disrespect him?

“I asked you to kill someone. Aren’t you going to do it?”

_ ‘Seven Hells’ _ . “A girl lacks respect.”

The foolish mortal gaped at him, before she scoffed out, “I said your words. What more is there?”

“Where a lovely girl praying to any other god, would she kneel before their alter as she prays?”

The girl seemed taken aback, as a pink hue dusted her cheeks. She scowled at him, her steel eyes burning with anger.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Don’t call a lovely girl what?”

“That!” she exclaimed, her chest heaving as she growled out like an animal. “It’s insulting!”

Ah, so that's what made her tick. He could use that. “So a lovely girl sees a god’s point of view?”

“Stop. It.” she bit out, reaching for her dagger. 

It was a shame, and a waste of time. She came, not knowing who she was dealing with. As he pulled out the dagger, and held it to its master’s neck, the girl gasped. Her dark eyes were wide as she looked at him in shock.

“A girl has disrespected and wasted a god’s time. Farewell, Lovely Girl.”

As the knife nicked at her pale skin, the girl gasped out, “V-Valar Morghulis! Valar Morghulis!”

He froze, unable to move his blade an inch. He would have cursed whoever created those words, had it not been himself. He supposed he could curse himself after he dealt with whatever this mortal asked of him. He retracted the dagger, and sighed.

“Speak the name.”

The girl gasped out her breath, before she panted out, “Well, first there’s-.” 

“-That can not be done.”

The girl gaped at him, her dark eyes blown to the size of plates.She scoffed out, “What do you mean it can’t be done?! I was told you could kill anyone I asked if i prayed to you!”

“One prayer, one name.”

“I can’t choose just one!”

“Then come back tomorrow. A god will wait.”

-~-

 

The girl’s prayer did not come the next day. Nor the day after that. He lost track of how long it was since he heard her prayer. That is until he felt it. It was at first a slight feeling of heat. He had initially brushed it off as the heat of the sun. Until a bit in sensation spread onto his shin.

He hissed out in pain and surprise. And it dawned on him. Someone was burning one of his temple.

He went through all his temples, trying to find the source of the fire. When he finally found it, he could feel the fire beginning to rise up. His visage, carved in stone, had its feet encased in flames. The entire wooden structure of the northern temple was collapsing. And one figure stood among the wreckage, attempting to move the statue.

“You,” he growled out at the girl, but she payed no mind.

She hauled the stone statue onto her small shoulders, one hand holding it in place, the other grasping an axe. He watched dumbstruck as she struck the axe through the wooden wall, making a hole large enough to fit herself and the statue through. She rushed out of the burning building, her torched cloak sizzling in the snow. 

He looked over her hacking form, ready to punish her for desecrating and stealing from his temple. Until the crunch of boots in the snow caused his focus to shift.

A group of men, waving a flag with the sigil of a burning heart stood above the girl, torches within their glove covered hands, and sneers on their faces.

“You're a damned fool, boy. Risking your life over a heretic statue.”

A god frowned at the mortal. Though she maybe an immense pain, she was no doubt a girl. If anyone was the fool, it was obviously this blind buffoon. 

“This temple has been here longer than your stupid lord of heat, you shits! You'd dare desecrate a temple over some balding arse and his foreign harlot?!”

A slap rang through out the air as the girl fell to the snow, holding her reddened cheek. He heard the unsheathing of blades as the men approached her. But the girl didn’t beg, she merely shielded the statue behind her form, glaring intensely at her attackers. A god stared in awe as the little she-wolf shielded his visage with her little form, growling at the advancing men.

He let down his glimmer, and stepped towards the advancing mortals. Unlike any major deities, a god lacked the expensive ethereal glow, but he did carry the aura of one, which became noticeable to the foolish mortals. It mattered not when they looked at him in shock, for they lay dead within a matter of seconds, their corpses twisted in unnatural ways. 

He looked to the girl, who did not shy away from the gruesome display, she instead looked to him in wide eyed wonder. He could practically see  question on her tongue. 

“A god needs a name,” he told her, and the girl nodded.

“Arya Stark.”

He blinked, before he told her, “A girl knows not what she asks.”

“I do,” she insisted, gesturing to the fallen bodies. “Teach me how to do that.”

-~-

Arya Stark had many gifts. Her petite form allowed her to be swift as she was deadly, and her mind was sharp. Sharp enough to learn the many secrets he taught her within a matter of hours. It was these gifts that had made her all the more trouble for him

Never had he’d met a mortal with such potential to honor his craft.  And it was this brilliance that had drawn him to her. She was brilliant, yet careless. Calm, yet wild in her rage. He would not allow her to carry out her training in service, for she was not yet ready. Her grey eyes would flash in anger, as she went at him with intent to let out her rage. To seek her own vengeance. Were she to truly become an agent of vengeance, she would need to learn to let go of her own to make room for others’ vengeance.

“A girl must focus her energy to her defensive as well, not just her offensive,” he mused as she fell to the ground again, glaring up at him and she panted like a dog.

“If you would just give me a second to catch my breathe-.”

“Death waits for no one, lovely girl,” he told her, and she snarled as she reached for her staff and set to her attempts to knock him off his feet.

After a few exchanged jabs back and forth, Arya Stark made the bold move to attack him in the left inner elbow. A risk move, but it could disarm him and give her a clear shot to the kidney. The only problem was that it left her diaphragm completely open, and he preferred not peeing blood. A quick jab and he hit where her liver would be, and she gasped out as she clutched her stomach. Not a moment later, he sent a quick jab to collarbone sent her tumbling backwards as she hacked for air. Shaking his head, he picked up her stick and looked down.

“That is all a god will teach a lovely girl today,” he told her, and turned around to begin making his way to another temple.

That is until he lost his footing as a hand yanked him to the ground. He began to ready his staff, until a hand snatched his hair by the roots and slammed his face into the ground. He felt his nose swell as he was rubbed into the ground, and felt his staff be taken out of his hand forcefully. Before he knew it, he had the staff pressed against his neck in a choke as Arya Stark straddled his back. Her voice rasped against the shell of his ears:

“What. Did I say. About calling me. ‘Lovely’?’” she growled as she pressed the staff harder against his neck. He let out a weak chuckle.

“Lovely girl has much anger. She must learn to be rid of it if she wishes to be an agent of vengeance. Especially if she is angry over a simple truth.”

He could feel the intention to choke as her hands shook the staff in anger, he took the opportunity of the unsteady staff in order to throw back his head and land the back of his skull square into her nose. As expected, she let out a cry as she moved her hand to cradle her bruised nose, he quickly maneuvered himself so that he could switch their position. Grasping the staff he flipped himself and shoved it against Arya’s throat. As she was caught off guard, she easily fell to the ground, her tiny body thrashing as she reached to pull the staff from her throat. To no avail, as he held his grip tight and straddled her to prevent her flailing legs to hit him. 

Smirking, he looked down at her and chuckled as she seemed to slowly simmer down, her only resistence in her eyes and the hands that struggled to hold the staff at a breathable distance. The discoloration of her nose, and the blood dripping down to her  pulled back lips, she liked fierce and animalistic as she snarled at him.

“Cheap shot,” she snapped, baring her teeth as close to his face as she could manage, like a wolf about to tear into its prey.

But then, something in her eyes shifted, and she slowly simmered down her angered features. Confused, he watched in anticipation as she smirked a predator's smile. 

All confusion field him as he felt a foot slide up his leg. Shocked beyond words, he could only gape down at the small mortal as she carefully trailed his calf with her bare toes. She embroidered his skin with the nail of her delicate digit, and he felt a shiver pass up his spine as she slowly dragged his robe up word at his thigh.

He did not teach the lovely girl this. That was one lesson he refrained specifically for the reason that was rearing its ugly head currently. The pulse of his blood, the tingle in his stomach, the thrum in his lower region. After all, he had not called her lovely girl for nothing. 

But that's what she was: a girl. No matter his regal bearing and divine race, he was still a man, and she but a child. Even more so to a god. She had lived but a moment of his life span. It was wrong. Yet her the lovely girl was, doing things to a god that a woman would do to a man. 

He could no longer feign disinterest when her wandering leg hooked around his waist, pulling them flush together. A god gulped loudly, and the evil girl smirked up at him, as if she had discovered the best secret. He'd be lying if he said it didn't cause an even worse problem for him. Especially when she leaned up towards him.

“Jaqen,” she growled, and seven hells, the way she spoke his sacred name in that smoky voice of hers did things to a god that should be considered taboo. 

But it quickly lost appeal as she twisted her hips. Caught off guard, he was suddenly found in her place as she maneuvered her hands to hold his in place. He could only look at the dastardly girl in shock. Yet somewhere inside of him the way she coyly played him stirred something inside that he prides himself in rarely, if ever, indulging himself in. 

And when her smile turned lopsided and playfully, he knew he was in trouble. 

“That's what you get for calling me lovely.”

If only she knew half of it. 

 

-~-

 

A god was in a predicament like he never had faced before in his immortal life. Yes, he was fully aware that those who shared his immortal blood where no strangers to this kind of issue. But never before had he'd had the “honor” of being counted among those who wished to take a mortal lover.

He was no stranger to intimacy, of course. As the god of vengeance, he had participated all means taking of revenge, including seduction. But that had been the ancient days, when mortals were ignorant, uninteresting,demanding, and the nymphs that played the grounds of the god of death were willing to play, so long as you wore the face of the object of their affections. 

But mortals now caught his eye. One singular mortal to be exact. She who dared to demand of him her own personal agenda in such an unkind manner, only to protect the temple if that who almost killed her. She was an enigma, a contradiction. She was cold yet good hearted. Violent, yet gentle. Dutiful yet wild. So wild. It made him ache. Though divine power granted him the ability to travel where he wanted in a split second, he would never be able to catch up to wherever the she wolf would roam. 

She was everything he should despise. Individuality, whereas he was an idea, a symbol of man's’ cruel nature. She was emotion and action, she was cruel nature itself. And he wanted her to be his.

 

-~-

 

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Her pleas, had it been anyone else, would not have phased him. But her grey eyes stirred in him even more anger, and hatred, for the mortal he dared to have cared for.

“I spoke the words,” she hissed. “You can't! You can't kill me, please!”

“A girl did speak the words,” he agreed. “A girl said her own name. A girl belongs to death, and to death she shall go “

As he brought out the flask,he saw her face morph into pure panic. She looked at him in pure  fear, something he hadn't seen in her eyes since they first met.

“Jaqen, please,” she whispered, her eyes misting over.

“A god would've given a girl the world,” he hissed. “A girl could've been the greatest servants of vengeance. A girl could’ve been a god’s most trusted servant.”

Her struggling ceased as she looked at him in wide eyed horror. “W-what are you saying?”

How could she not know? The little tart had used it against him time and time again. He had been so sure that it was mutual, until he had come to meet her as she placed a face on the wall. A face of a mortal that was not die. She had looked at him as if she had done nothing wrong. She looked at him as if she had  **accomplished** some great task. 

“I-I did what you taught me,” she choked out.

“A god did not teach a girl to kill those who have not been named.”

“I killed someone with  **your** gifts! What more could you possibly want?”

“A god wanted you,stupid girl!” He snarled, his eyes piercing her’s. The weight of finally saying it lifted great weight from his shoulders. No more dancing around the obvious. No more unspoken words and repressed wants. He laid out all his feelings, in a feeble attempt to redeem her and his own wounded heart.

“W-what?” she coughed out. “T-That is not what I meant!” her pale cheeks turning as red as blood. “That is not what I meant at all!”

A crack sounded through the temple, and a god felt as if the sun itself had died. As he stared into her confused and horror filled eyes, he realized it had not died. It was an eclipse. The moon in her eyes was blocking the sun. He grasped her cheeks, opening them for the vile as he stared down at her coldly. She looked up at him with those silver eyes, no longer pleading, but accepting. And he was weak.

Lifting the vial to his lips, a god drained it into his mouth, mimicking swallowing it, and like a sheet he crumpled to the floor. All the while the lovely girl stared in horror.

Keeping still, he waited as she fell to the ground, sobbing for him to get up, that she was sorry. That she had lost her friend. He held back the urge to scoff. Friendship. A mortal concept, and a feeble one at best, if what she had expressed had been friendship. But a god was patient, and when she finally went to sob into his chest. 

Quickly, he bolted himself up.  In her shock he was able to capture his prize. He took her face into his hands once more as he pushed their lips together. In her shock, her mouth was laxed, and he took the opportunity to pour the poison into her mouth. It was not a kiss, but he’d be damned if he didn't take some satisfaction from this. So he pressed his lips to hers bruisingly, forging her no other option than to swallow the liquid. A harsh bite to her lower lip and it was done. A girl went stumbling back, trying to spit out the contents. But It was too late as she began to tremble. A god looked on in interest as her grey eyes turned pale. Pale as the moon itself.

“W-What’s happening?” She cried out. “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

“A god has bestowed a girl his gifts,” he told her hollowly. “ A girl may be able to kill whoever she wishes. But she will never have the satisfaction of seeing their dying faces. A girl will never be truly satisfied, as a god was never truly satisfied.” He watched her face turn crestfallen as the words weighed in, and heard the on slaughter of sobs that began to rise in her chest. Not being able to bear it any longer, he turned to leave. “Farewell, Arya Stark.”

There are few songs about Nameless God of Vengeance. He was one of the few gods that had not taken up countless mortal lovers. There is but one song. The Tragedy of the Winter Princess and the Cruel God. Of how a princess of the Northern Kingdom had refused the advances of a god, and was punished cruelly for her chastity. But what they don’t know is that she was as cruel as him. And a god hated himself even more for loving her still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra Points to whoever gets the T.S. Eliot Reference!  
> Up next: That one crack ship that maybe 5 people ship, and I'm applying as cabin boy on this row boat: BenjenxMeera!

**Author's Note:**

> I feel awful for having made Willas the bad guy :( I genuinely like Willas, and thought that in the books, he was the best of Sansa's current suitors. (I say current because I'm a hopeless romantic and pray that there may be a certian Targaryen suitor in book!Sansa's future) But out of all of Sansa's suitors, he seemed to be the only one who could fit Theseus' wit and bravery. So sadly, he had to be the one to leave her on the beach. I'm sorry Willas! :'( Thank you for reading! Please kudo and comment! and stay tuned for the next one! :P  
> And if you have any suggestion, whether it be a myth or a ship, please fell free to make a suggestion in the comments!


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